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DOBELL COLLECTION 



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THE 



CITY OF THE DESERT 



©tfjet $oems* 



Br OXONIEXSIS. 



PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION. 

MDCCCLI. 



pi C r 



LONDON : 

ilKAUBUHY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIAHS. 



205449 
'13 



THE DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTEB, 

THIS SMALL VOLUME IS, BY SPECIAL PERMISSION, 

DEDICATED 

BY HER EOYAL HIGHNESS' MOST GRATEFUL, MOST HUMBLE, 
AND MOST OBEDIENT SERVANT, 

THE AUTHOR. 



TO THE BEADEB. 



The following Bhymes have neither the excuse of 
hurried preparation, for their imperfections, nor of 
too partial friends' advice, for their publication. 

They have all, with but few exceptions, appeared 
from time to time in the various periodicals of the 
day, and are now only issued in a collected form. 

It is hoped, therefore, that since any approval they 
then may have met with is, long ere this, exhausted, 
the criticism they provoked is, as equally, allayed"; so 
that, even though there be none now to point out 
a redeeming feature, there may be quite as few to 
discover an unpardonable fault. 



CONTENTS. 




♦ 


PAGE 


THE CITY OF THE DESERT . . 


. 1 


CHILDHOOD . . . ... 


. . 15 


ANOTHER TEAR 


. 18 


SONG 


. . 22 


CONGRATULATORY VERSES . . . . . 


. 24 


THE SCOTCH EMIGRANT^ FAREWELL 


. . 28 


WHAT IS A POET'S LIFE? 


. 31 


CHARLES STUART 


. . 33 


THE RING 


. 46 


THE PRIVATEER . .* . . 


. . 50 


STANZAS 


. 55 


NEWARK CASTLE 


. . 57 


OLD LETTERS . 


. 60 


FAREWELL TO COLLEGE 


. . 64 


STANZAS 


. 67 


SCOTIA 


. . 70 


"IN MEMORIAM" ...... 


. 75 



THE CITY OF THE DESEET. 

Qfee> t of the wilds, awake ! — the minstrel flings 
A daring hand across the trembling strings ; 
Fain would he bid thee, Petea, vet once more 
Arise in all the vaunted pomp of yore ; 
Fain would he see thee once again appear 
Through the dim mists of many a by-gone year, 
And, like a giant shade of other days, 
Amid the gloom thy mighty form upraise ! 

There was a time, ere centuries had roll'd 
Away unnoticed ' as a tale that 's told ' — 
Ere ages pass'd into Eternity, 
Like heaving wavelets on a summer sea,— 



J 



2 THE CITY OF THE DESERT. 

When, onward led by an Almighty hand, 
Blest Israel's children sought the promised land ; 
When thousands, erst so boastful of their might, 
Now shrunk before them, speechless with affright, 
And nations, stubborn as the earth they trod, 
First learn' d to tremble at the name of God. 
Presumptuous Edom ! in thine own brief hour 
Of fleeting pride and transitory power, 
In impious tone thou badest them turn and bow, 1 
And, lo ! that vaunting pride — where is it now ? 

Long, long ago, as evening's shadows fell, 
Afar was heard the camel's tinkling bell, 
By distance sweet, as o'er the desert waste, 
In sight of home, right merrily they haste. 
And, oh! how beams the wanderer's weary eye 
To gaze on scenes embalm' d in memory, 



1 The Edomites forbade the passage of the Israelites through their terri- 
tory : " And Edom said, thou shalt not go through." — Numbers, xx. 20. 



THE CITY OF THE DESERT. 

Again to mingle with the loved of yore, 
Each danger vanish' d and each sorrow o'er ! 

And to thy footstool, Desert Qneen, they bring 
Wealth that would gladden India's richest king ; 
The perfumed sweets of ' Araby the blest,' 
That beauteous land where Phoebus loves to rest ; 
The gorgeous purples from the Tyrian shore ; 
Silks from a loom that ne'er may weave them more; 
The priceless offerings of the golden East, 
To deck the palace, or adorn the feast. 
Princes were then thy guests, the great thy friends, 
Thine all the charm that wealth to power lends ; 
Old and renown' d thy high ancestral line, 
And every hope and every wish was thine. 
Then fill'd thy homes a thoughtless, merry throng ; 
Then rung thy halls with many a minstrel song ; 
Then music floated by on Zephyr's wing, 
And Joy, unclouded, ruled it, triumphing. 



B 2 



4 THE CITY OP THE DESERT. 

How art thou changed! — in each once crowded 
street, 
No more again the princely merchants meet ; 
No more again the lightsome laugh resounds, 
Nor pleasure speeds her fascinating rounds ; 
No more, as grateful eventide draws nigh, 
Awakes the voice of joyous revelry; 
No dusty camel trains approach the gate ; — 
All now is hush'd, and drear and desolate ! 

Oft where the palm-tree's feathery boughs once 
spread 
A welcome shelter o'er the traveller's head, 
"Where bubbling springs well'd forth with icy wave, 
Pilgrims were wont their weary feet to lave, 
And, stretch'd at ease beneath the ample shade, 
Still lingering, wonder' d not that yet they staid. 
Pull often, too, thy sunny daughters came, 
And eyes, whose flash no northern sky might claim, 



THE CITY OF THE DESERT. 5 

Beam'd at some tale to Arab maidens dear, 
Or, dim with pity, dropp'd the gentle tear. 

Such Petra once ! Ah, never more again 
Shall music sigh across the desert plain, 
Nor ever more the shatter' d palm-trees fling 
Their once green branches o'er the lonely spring ; 
And summer flowerets that, around their feet, 
Erst scented evening with a breath so sweet, 
Erst bathed their beauties in the silver tide, 
Now, dead and trampled, strew the fountain side ! 
In silent sorrow droops the palm alone ; 
The song is hush'd, the merry voices gone. 
And thou, proud city ! now the giant tomb 
Of grandeur sunk beneath a hopeless doom, 
Who now beholds thee, in thy sculptured pride, 
And marks not Ruin's empire far and wide, 
And asks not, as he stands with wondering gaze, 
This mighty Edom's boast in other days ? 



THE CITY OF THE DESERT. 

A chasm, 2 reft down through the living rock, 
"Whose dusky sides Time's fiercest efforts mock, 
"Whose frowning precipices almost meet, 
And threaten danger to intruding feet, 
By one grey crumbling arch of triumph 

spann'd, 
As thrown across by some wild wizard hand, 
So light, and yet with such proportions fair, 
Seems as 'twere high suspended in the air, — 
This is thy portal, Petra, — this the gorge, 
Cloven by weapons from no human forge, 
Eorm'd all thy hidden beauties to protect, 
The outwork bold of Nature's Architect. 

Grloomy and dark at first, but wildly grand, 
At length its narrow boundaries expand ; 



2 » The only entrance to Petra, on the east, is through a frightful chasm 
in the rocks, not more than sufficient for the passage of two horsemen abreast. 
The perpendicular sides of this pass vary in height from 400 to 700 feet, some- 
times overhanging to such a degree as almost to exclude the light." — Irby 
and Mangle's Travels. 



THE CITY OP THE DESERT. 7 

The beetling cliffs now arch not overhead, 
Not o'er the pass a chilly shadow spread, 
But, streaming downwards, pours a flood of light, 
And Petra bursts upon the dazzled sight. 

Here, 3 from the solid cliff out-hewn, a shrine 
Of finish' d workmanship and rich design, 
Whose polish' d shafts and master-chisell'd stone 
Proclaim the worship of some god unknown, 
Pile upon pile, in graceful beauty rear'd, 
By storm unshatter'd and by Time scarce sear'd, 
High o'er the head, in massive grandeur rise, 
And ' point their ' haughty ' columns to the skies.' 

Thou, 4 too, wert here, fair Borne, imperial Queen ! 
"Where is the land thy glories have not seen ? 

3 " This temple, called by the Arabs Khasne Pharaon, is be^rn out of one 
enormous block of freestone. Its position is one of the most beautiful and 
striking that can be imagined, and the exquisiteness of its finish presents 
a strong contrast to the savage scenery that surrounds it." — Labarde. 

4 A Roman statue of Victory is one of the most conspicuous and interesting 
objects in this shrine. 



8 THE CITY OP THE DESERT. 

Thou, too, hadst sought this city of the waste, 
And thy proud eagles on her temple placed ; 
And Victory's marble form — the emblem true 
Of might that could, uncheck'd, a world subdue — 
Eears high her head o'er Petra's sacred fane, 
And tells of days she ne'er may see again. 

There, stretch' d before the eye in wide extent, 
Like pale Diana's arch in heaven bent, 
Lies Petra's amphitheatre, — alas ! 
A shadow of its former self ; a mass 
Of crumbling stone ! No more a savage crowd 
Awakes the echoes with its plaudits loud ; 
No more the arena rings with warlike clang, 
Nor victims bleed beneath the lion's fang ; 
Nor gentle beauty views, with glistening eye, 
Some cruel scene of captive butchery ; 
A prince's envied seat no more is known, 
And weeds ignoble shroud a monarch's throne ! 






THE CITY OF THE DESERT. 

But, 5 Petra ! ere the fleeting hour be sped, 
Turn we a moment to thy mighty dead ; 
"With mingled feelings, half of grief and pride, 
Thou gazest mournfully on every side. 
Oh could I soar on Inspiration's wings, 
To paint the pomp of thy sepulchred kings ! 
For, 'midst thy palaces, where'er we stray, 
Those gorgeous monuments our steps delay. 
The wondering eye in every pile may trace 
Corinthian beauty or Ionic grace ; 
Or e'en, perchance, Italia' s hand has lent 
Her art to rear each beauteous monument, 
And Architecture's noblest powers, combined, 
Embodied each creation of the mind ; 
For future ages every fabric raised, 
To gaze on each, and marvel as they gazed. 



5 " Some hundred yards below the springs, begin the outskirts of the vast 
Necropolis of Petra; the sides of the mountains are covered with an endless 
variety of tombs." — Troy and JIangles Travels. 



10 THE CITY OF THE DESERT. 

Mourn we for thee ? — thy destinies recall 
Cities as proud — as humbled in their fall. 
In vain the Capitol uprears her head, 
The once fear'd Spirit of the Past is fled : 
In vain the Acropolis frowns o'er the plain, 
The tottering ruins now alone remain — 
Their hour is o'er — but feebleness, their might, 
For each sun set in an eternal night. 

Yet, Petra, mark ! it was no common doom 
That shrouded thee, alas ! in hopeless gloom : 
Thou heard' st the voice when Heaven pronounced 

thy fate, 
' Thy habitations shall be desolate !' 
And shuddering, conscience-stricken, at the 

sound, 
Shook thy whole trembling fabric to the ground. 
When Salem bow'd beneath a foreign yoke, 
And Israel's sons a sound of mourning woke ; 



THE CITY OF THE DESERT. 11 

"When Rome's fierce armies, madden' d by her 

blood, 
Swept through her streets, a wild, resistless flood ; 
When Judah's daughters, 'neath the cruel blade, 
Raised a faint shriek — a feeble cry for aid ; 
When sons fell fighting round a murder' d sire, 
And Sion's hill became one mighty pyre, — 
Petra ! c 'twas thine, when Israel's courage died, 
To dare the victors in their hour of pride, 
On ready arms with boastful haste to seize, 
And fling thy challenge -banner to the breeze. 
But now — that vaunting banner never more 
Again shall flutter proudly, as of yore ; 
Xor warrior steel, nor warrior trappings gleam, 
Xor war-cry break again the warrior's dream. 
The tangled briar, on the crumbling wall, 
Mocks the rich hangings of the banquet hall, 



K At the siege and capture of Jerusalem, Petra, still in the zenith of her 
power, made formidable opposition to the Roman forces. 



12 THE CITY OF THE DESERT. 

And shatter' d columns scarce suffice to tell 
Where mighty monarchs once were wont to dwell. 
The costly palaces of Edom's line, 
In cheerless, solitary sorrow, pine, — 
Yielding unwillingly to Time's decay, 
Drop, stone by stone, in silent grief, away. 

When sunset spreads a shadow o'er the sky, 7 
Thy echoes mock the wild owl's dreary cry ; 
Forth from his den the crouching lion steals ; 
High o'er the cliff the soaring eagle wheels ; 
While the fierce cormorant and raven share 
The bleeding quarry in the vulture's lair. 
These, Petra, are thy only tenants now ; — 
City of Esau, shroud thy haughty brow ! 
The Lord but spoke — and, lo ! thy fate was seal'd ; 
The threaten' d vengeance for thy crimes reveal' d ; 



7 " But the cormorant and bittern shall possess it ; the owl also, and the 
raven, shall dwell in it ; and he shall stretch out upon it the lines of confusion 
and the stones of emptiness." — Isaiah, xxxiv. 2. 



THE CITY OF THE DESERT. 13 

The word went forth, and all thy grandeur fled, 

Or linger' d but amidst thy many dead : 

And thou, low grovelling in thy kindred dust, 

Art forced to own that Heaven is great and just. 

What 'vail'd thy power when the prophet rose 

And told the fatal advent of thy foes ? 

What 'vail'd thy pomp — thy name — thy pride — 

when all 
But served to mark, more signally, thy fall ? 
E'en to this day, the wealth which thou possess' d 8 
Is doom'd, for ever, to deny thee rest ; 
What Time has spared, the avaricious band 
Of Desert-robbers mar with ruthless hand ; 
And ever and anon, amid thy shrines, 
The roving Arab marks some well-known lines, 
In search of hidden wealth defaces each, 
Whose fair proportions rise within his reach ; 



8 The Arabs have despoiled every tomb which, from its inscription, they 
supposed might contain treasure. 



14 THE CITY OF THE DESERT. 

And structures, beauteous as man could rear, 
For gold's vile sake disfigured, disappear. 

Petra, farewell ! — farewell, thou giant shade 
Of by-gone pomp, and hopes that have betray' d ! 
Once thou wert bless' d with all that e'er could bless ;- 
AVhat art thou now ? — a howling wilderness. 
A signal monument of Holy Wrath, 
Thy crumbling columns guide the Arab's path, 
And heaven- ward pointing whence thy ruin came, 
Mark thee a mighty city — but, in name ! 



15 



CHILDHOOD. 



My childhood's days — those sunny days of gladness 

unalloy'd, 
When this bright world of pleasure seem'd but made 

to be enjoy'd, 
When every morn but usher' d in mirth's endless 

happy train, — 
My childhood's days — where are ye now ? — would ye 

were here again. 

My childhood's hopes- — those rainbow hopes, that shone 

in life's young sky, 
Without one summer cloud to shade the gazer's 

glistening eye ; 



16 CHILDHOOD. 

Without one storin to sweep across the Future's 

vista' d plain, — 
My childhood's hopes — where are ye now ? — would ye 

were here again. 

My childhood's joys — those simple joys, that sunn'd 

the passing hour, 
And made a little Eden plant of every smiling 

flower, 
And bound our hearts to days gone by, in memory's 

golden chain, — 
My childhood's joys — where are ye now ? — would ye 

were here again. 

My childhood's friends — those merry friends, so loved 

long, long ago, 
Who shared my every happiness, who wept my every 

woe : 



CHILDHOOD. 17 

"Who hallow' d many a beauteous spot : — for them I 

look in vain ; — 
My childhood's friends — where are ye now ? — would 

ye were here again. 



18 


ANOTHEE YEAE. 


Another year ! another year ! — how much the word 


portends ! 


How much of strange eventful change a twelvemonth 


comprehends ! 


Such mingled woe and happiness — 'twere hard indeed 


to say 


If joy or sorrow marks the year that 's passing fast 


away. 


Another year ! — how many hopes, all blooming once 


so fair, 


Have blossom' d but to wither 'neath the chilly blast 


of care ! 



ANOTHER YEAR. 19 

How many bright and sunny morns, with beauteous 

azure sky, 
Have dawn'd upon us — but to show their own 

inconstancy ! 

Another year! — how many hearts, erst warm with love 

and life, 
Lie cold and pulseless in that home that knows no 

care nor strife ! 
How often, 'mid some circle dear, chill death has dared 

to steal, 
And leave a wound that time itself can never, never 

heal! 

Yet grieve we not : — though hopes may fade, there yet 

are more to bloom, 
And waft the soul on buovant wings awav from 

sorrow's gloom : 



J 

20 ANOTHER YEAR. 

Though fairest morns have changed their smile, there 

yet are days as bright, 
That aye have summer's sunny skies from ruddy dawn 

to night. 

Though warmest hearts now beat no more, why sigh 

we o'er their bliss, 
That they have sought a purer and a better world 

than this ? 
"Why mourn we o'er some long-felt void in homes and 

circles dear, 
And rather cherish not the few that still may linger 

here ? 



Farewell, ye fleeting moments all ! and, chequer' d as 

ye were, 
Oh never may a darker day arouse the heart's 

despair ! 






ANOTHER YEAE. 21 

Afar adown the vale awakes, with deep though 

soften' d tone, 
The iron voice of passing time : — another year is 

gone ! 



22 



SONG. 

Air — " Fleuve du Tage." 

Oh, think of me but half as oft 

As I shall think of thee, 
"When far, far sever' d, we may meet 

But in the memory ! 
I would not bid a tear-drop fall, 

I would not ask a sigh ; 
'Twould only show an aching heart, 

And dim a lovely eye. 

JSTo — let the merry laugh of yore 

Ring just as joyously ; 
Let sadness cloud thy brow no more ; 

But, oh ! still think of me. 



SONG. 23 

Awake, awake the blithesome song 

I once so loved to hear, 
And as thou singest, oh, believe 

My spirit lingers near ! 

And when the thoughts of other days 

Come floating o'er the soul, 
Which, bright as stars in yonder sky, 

Through Memory's heaven roll, 
Oh, sigh not o'er the happy past 

As if the dream gave pain ! 
But smile — perchance thy winning smile 

May woo it back again ! 



24 



CONGEATULATOEY VEESES 

ON THE MARRIAGE AND ARRIVAL AT CULZEAN CASTLE, AYRSHIRE, OF THE 
MOST NOBLE THE MARQUIS AND MARCHIONESS OF AILS A. 



The harp, the harp ! — On this auspicious day 

Shall Echo slumber on the mountain side ? 
Shall Carrick wake no tributary lay, 

To welcome Ailsa and his lovely bride ? 
Shall Scotia, while one bard may yet remain 

To sweep a chord that trembles 'neath his hand, 
Eefuse to raise a rude though joyous strain, 

And tell her gladness to each distant land ? 

He comes, he comes ! — Bid martial music ring 
Amid thine old ancestral walls, Culzean ! 

Arouse far Cassilis with the echoing 

That greets the chieftain in his own domain ! 



CONGRATULATORY VERSES. 25 

Far from the beauteous south he brings a daine 
To halls, from which, oh, never may she roam ! 

Pair as that lovely land from whence she came, 

Bright as yon sun that lights her to her home ! 

Look forth, look forth, thou gentle stranger ! gaze 

On those thy very smile hath power to bless ; 
Accord this land thy meed of sweetest praise, 

So passing fair in all its loveliness. 
Say, did thine eye, when revelling among 

Scenes whose bright memories are ne'er forgot, — 
Hill, dale, and woodland, theme of many a song, — 

E'er linger, raptured, o'er a lovelier spot ? 

'Mid trees embosom' d, whose grey arms have spread 
Pull many a long, eventful year, I ween, 

A grateful shelter o'er the roe-deer's head, 
Culzean's fortalice rises on the scene ; 



26 CONGRATULATORY VERSES. 

And proudly gazes she across the sea, 

Whose wintry waves have lash'd her sides in vain, 
But now lie slumbering so peacefully 

As if they ne'er would dare the deed again. 

And many a bark, whose gallant pennons stream, 

Light as the gossamer upon the gale, 
Gray as the fairy visions of a dream, 

To greet thee, Lady, furls each snowy sail : 
And from the bosom of the glassy deep 

A thousand voices burst upon the ear, 
And answering Echo, from grey Ailsa's steep, 

Eepeats in gladness each wild thrilling cheer. 

High o'er Culzean's dark haughty donjon flaunt 
The war-worn banners of the olden time, 

As if they seem'd, in prideful joy, to vaunt 

Of days that knew them in their warrior prime. 



CONGRATULATORY VERSES. 

The rush of onset nutters them no more ; 

No more around them wakes the battle cry ; 
With triumphs wearied, once again they soar 

In gladsome peace to hail the Kennedy ! 



27 



On Dowhill's ruddy brow the beal-fires blaze ; 

The booming cannon roars across the firth, 
Till far Glen Rosa listens with amaze, 

And wild Groat-fell takes up the cry of mirth. 
Welcome, oh, welcome to our own dear land ! 

Welcome, oh, welcome to your own Culzean ! 
Blest as the bard could wish, whose trembling hand 

Wakes the poor homage of this heartful strain. 



28 



THE SCOTCH EMIGEANT'S FAREWELL. 

O'er the east the dark clouds lower ; 

Hark the breeze that sweeps the sea ! — 
Scotland ! ere another hour, 

That breeze wafts me far from thee. 
O'er my head the white sail, swelling, 

Floats impatient at delay ; 
On my cheek the tears are telling 

How the wanderer fain would stay. 
Scenes of all my earliest pleasure, 

Bright as once ye were of yore, 
Te are now a priceless treasure, 

Wrapt in memory's golden store. 
Scenes of sweet association, 

Sunny brae and shady glen, 



THE SCOTCH EMIGRANTS FAREWELL. 29 

Loved with youthful adoration, 

I may view you ne'er again ! 
Ne'er again, on yon blue mountain, 

May I cull the heather-bell ; 
Ne'er again, beside yon fountain, 

Hear the strain once loved so well. 
Gloaming comes, no merry voices 

Float from far upon the gale ; — 
Where 's the heart that now rejoices ? 

They have seen the stranger sail. 
Down amid yon valley, glistening, 

Winds the burnie swift along; 
Oh, how oft I've linger' d, listening 

To the music of its song ! 
Oh, how oft, in childhood, straying 

By its nower-enamell'd side, 
Watch' d the speckled 'trouties' playing, 

Glancing 'neath its amber tide ! 
Little then dreamt I of sorrow, 



30 THE SCOTCH EMIGRANT S FARKWELL. 

Little then thought I of pain ; 
All was sunny — every morrow 

Yesterday return' d again ! 
Who could think, when all was shining. 

Winter's chilly hour would come ; — 
Were it not ungrateful pining, 

Blest with such a happy home ? 
Now, alas, sweet scenes, we se^er ! 

I must seek a distant strand ; 
Bloom thou on as bright as ever ; — 

1'are thee well, my native land ! 



31 



"WHAT IS A POET'S LIFE?" 



What is a poet's life, but scenes 

Of sorrow and of grief ? 
What is a poet's death, but means 

Of giving such relief ? 

What is his boyhood, but a bright 
And budding summer flower ? 

What is his manhood, but the sight 
Of this world's blighting power ? 

What is his age ? a dying flame 
That flickers in the blast: 

What is his prayer ? a deathless name, 
When he from us hath pass'd. 



32 "WHAT IS A POET'S LIFE ? " 

What does he ask ? a simple stone 
In some sequester' d spot, 

Where kindred souls may weep alone 
And tell the poet's lot ! 



CHAELES STUAET. 



Weep, Scotia ! weep o'er dark Culloden's plain, 
The grave of hopes that ne'er may bloom again ! 
Mourn, Albyn ! l mourn o'er Moray's battle field, — 
Where hearts lie cold that never learn' d to yield, 
Where friend and foeman, in the grasp of death, 
Together sank upon the purple heath, 
And chief and clansman, falling side by side, 
For Stuart woke one feeble cheer, and died. 

The morning sun look'd down upon a sight, 
To thrill the tamest spirit with delight : 

1 The ancient name of Scotland; — vide Campbell's Poems. 



34 CHARLES STUART. 

Stretch' d far and near, th' embattled armies lay, 
Waiting, impatiently, the coming fray ; 
Bright gleam' d, as day-break saw each line advance, 
Claymore and targe, Lochaber-axe and lance ; 
Loud rose Lochiel's — Glengarry's gathering cry, — 
Clansmen, lead on ! for James and Victory ! 



When evening came, the coronach's 2 low wail 
In whispering accents told the mournful tale ; 
A thousand forms, erst vigorous with life, 
Lay cold and pulseless on the field of strife : 
Scotia's proud thistle, trampled to the ground, 
Strew' d her torn leaves of liberty around ; 
All the bright dreams of victory and fame, 
Like meteor stars, but vanish'd as they came ; 
Low in the dust lay glaive and tartan sheen, 
And Justice' self wept, sternly, o'er the scene ! 

2 The Highland lament for the dead. 



CHARLES STUART. 35 

Fatal Culloden ! all ! thy memory 
Recalls the bitter tear to many an eye ! 
The night- wind, sweeping Moray's lonely wave, 
Sighs a sad requiem o'er the clansman's grave ; 
Green springs the heather on Drummossie's breast, 
Where Scotia's bravest ones together rest ; 
And ^Nairn's dark waters, in a thousand rills, 
Wake up the sorrows of their native hills. 
Hush'd is the song on grey Benledi's side ; 
Silent and lone Loch Ericht's glassy tide, 
With anguish voiceless, doom'd, for aye, to mourn 
Bright sunny days that never may return. 



But where is he, in whose ill-fated cause, 
Albyn's bold chieftains spurn' d their country's 

laws ? 
Where is the prince, to whom each Highland heart 
Clung with a hold that death alone could part ? 



D 2 



36 CHARLES STUART. 

That morning saw him 'midst as brave a band 
As e'er on battle field unsheathed a brand ; — 
That eve beheld him, every comrade gone, 
Defeated, hopeless, shelterless, alone. 

Like some wild roe, upstarting as the gale 
Wafts the deep bay of slot-hound on his trail ; 
Prom Arisaig to Invergarry's keep, 
Beneath whose walls the loch's blue waters sleep, — 
From strath to strath, from dusky glen to glen, 
Where'er most distant from the haunts of men, — 
From mountain side to mountain side he fled, 
Life on his step — a price upon his head. 
Some lonely hut, some far deep hidden cave, 
A kindly shelter to the wanderer gave ; 
And faithful guards, their chief's rude couch around, 
Waked o'er his sleep, and watch'd for every sound. 
And well the Stuart knew that he might dare 
Entrust his safety to a clansman's care ; 



CHARLES STUART. 37 

'For, while the strength of life could nerve an arm. 
'Twas ready aye to shield their chief from harm. 
For him they 'd shrink not at impending death, 
But bless ' Prince Charlie ' with their latest breath. 

What 'vail'd the lowland gold 3 with men like 
those, 
Pure as whose hearts no dew-bell gems the rose ; 
What though the wealth of worlds essay' d to buy 
The hardy mountaineer's fidelity ? 
A traitor thought had tinged his cheek with shame, 
And perfidy — he knew it but by name. 

Such were the feelings of that gallant band 4 
Of clansmen, outlaw' d in their native land ; 
Eobb'd of their humble homes by stern decree, 
That left them scarce a dear-bought liberty ; 



3 Thirty thousand pounds was the price set upon the Pretender's head. 

4 " The seven men of Glenmoriston," who were, for some considerable 
period, the protectors of Charles Stuart, are here alluded to. 



38 CHA11LES STUART. 

Men who had, nightly, on the lone hill-side 

Gazed on their ' shielings ' burning far and wide ; 

Heard the wild echo of the spoiler's cry, 

As each new blaze lit up the starless sky ; 

Or dash'd among their foes, as round they stood, 

And quench' d the glowing embers with their blood. 

No dastard dream of mercenary gain 
Had o'er their souls cast e'en a passing stain ; 
Though reft of all that worldliness could prize, 
The Southron bribe ne'er glisten' d in their eyes : 
Their spirit shrank not at oppression's smart, 
Nor venal honour swell' d one manly heart. 
Bold as on Benvenue the dappled roe, 
True as the grey- wing' d arrow from the bow; 
"With dauntless bearing and devoted blade, 
Hands that would wither ere they had betray' d ; 
How doubly welcome was their task to shed 
A ray of safety o'er the outcast's head ! 



CHARLES STUART. 39 

And thou, fair Flora, noble-hearted maid ! 
"When thine own prince besought thy timely aid. 
When foes surrounded him on every hand, 
And gleam' d the red cross 5 over sea and land, 
Could' st thou be callous to the Stuart's fate, 
And on the brink of danger hesitate ? 
From isle to isle, on those wild western shores, 
On which the Atlantic all its fury pours, 
From Uist's grey cliffs to Eaasay's dreary beach, 
Moor piled on moor as far as eye can reach, 
Robed as thyself, his course the wanderer shaped, 
And e'en when all escape seemed closed — escaped. 

But, oh ! when sailing on those lonely seas, 
Strange forms swept past him on the vesper breeze ; 
Low wailing voices, as the night-wind sigh'd, 
Came whispering round him on the heaving tide ; 



3 The Red, or St. George's Cross, was the badge of the loyalist soldiers, 
just as the White Rose distinguished the followers of the Pretender. 



40 CHARLES STUART. 

They told of victims to barbarian laws, 

Of lives all forfeited in Stuart's cause, 

Of vengeful scaffolds reeking with a flood 

Of Scotia's dearest — ay, and noblest blood — 

Of orphan tears and widows unconsoled, 

Of homes all desolate, and hearths all cold ! 

He saw and heard them — oh ! how, sorrowing, bled 

His heart in pity o'er the early dead ! 

O'er Elphinstone, and Tullibardine's chief, 

"Who fell, untimely, like the summer leaf; 

O'er gallant Balmerino, doom'd to kneel 

In Stuart's cause beneath the headsman's steel ; 

O'er many a friend, in that devoted strife, 

Who pledged his faith, and seal'd it with his life. 

Tive moons had gazed on Mona's waters deep/' 
And waned again 'neath blue Corrada's steep ; 



6 Charles Stuart was concealed for five months among the glens and 
mountains of the West of Scotland. 



CHARLES STUART. 41 

Morning's grey dawn and evening's gentle gale, 

Alas ! had wafted no expected sail ; 

O'er the lone beach the outcast wanderers stray, 

To hail the keel that linger' d on its way, 

Or, from some cliff, the deep's broad outline mark, 

And chide the wave that brought no saviour bark. 

At length the news came down — a sail was seen, 

Wild, wintry Moidart ! near thy waters green ; 

And Gallia's colours, floating from the mast, 

Proclaim' d the wanderer's every danger past. 

He stood on deck, and gazed upon a shore 

He never might, perhaps, revisit more : 

His thoughts reverted to the sunny hour 

That shone upon the birth of all his power. 

Again he listen' d for the thrilling peal 

That hail'd the white rose on thv shores, Loch 

Shiel ! 
Again he wander' d o'er the bright array 
Led forth to battle on Culloden's day ; 



42 CHARLES STUAllT. 

Thought of fair hopes and prospects once so high — 
Hopes that had bloom' d, but only bloom'd to die. 

" Land of my fathers ! ere the shades of night 
Shroud thee for ever from my straining sight. 
Ere the breeze, waking o'er yon sleeping sea, 
Wafts me afar from happiness and thee : 
Ere yet unfaded from my filial view, 
Home of my forefathers ! A long adieu ! 
I stood alone on yon wild, rugged strand, 
With none to 'friend me save my own right hand : 
I raised the Standard in my father's name ; 
And clan on clan around that Standard came ; 
I swore to consecrate life's latest gasp, 
To wrest the sceptre from an alien grasp, 
And waft to Britain, upon Victory's wings, 
Her hope of hopes — her ancient line of Kings. 
Twice fifty years have scarcely pass'd away, 
Since one Charles mourn' d o'er Worcester's fatal day ; 



CHARLES STUART. 43 

And dark Culloden's plain, by Heaven's decree, 

Another Worcester was, alas ! to me. 

Like Charles, preserved by superhuman power, 

I live to smile at danger's deadliest hour ; 

Like him, may fortune brightest at the helm 

Guide back my bark to my ancestral realm ; 

And Holyrood's grey echoing towers raise, 

Round James's throne, the song of other days. 

Tet should it not be so, should hope delay' d 

Turn a deaf ear to all my prayers for aid, 

Then, oh ! forget that such there e'er has been, 

And drop a veil o'er Stuart's closing scene. 

Albyn, farewell ! e'en o'er thy mountains blue 

The night mist, stealing, dims my fading view, 

O'er my pale cheek the glistening tear-drops swell ; — 

Home, friends and country, fare ye ever well!" 

The morn dawn'd brightly over sea and land, 
But saw no bark on Lochnanuagh's strand : 



44 CHARLES STUART. 

Far o'er the deep the favouring breezes bore 
The flower of Scotia to fair Grallia's shore, 
And weeping friends gazed anxious o'er the main, 
And watch' d what gale should waft them back again ! 
Long, long they look'd, year after year pass'd by, 
And yet no sail lit up the weary eye ; 
At length the whisper' d breath of rumour told, 
That their loved, exiled, prince was waning old ; 
That toils and cares, when struggling for the crown, 
Had bow'd his once so buoyant spirit down ; — 
Crush' d all the hopes that erst were wont to mock,- - 
His broken heart had sunk beneath the shock. 

Like some wild pibroch, at the close of day, 
Now swelling full — now dying far away, — 
So falls, in accents still to memory dear, 
The Exile's story on a clansman's ear, 
Whilst, fondly in their own ' Prince Charlie's ' praise, 
Fair Scotia's daughters wake immortal lays, 



CHARLES STUART. 45 

And aged grandsires, on the village green, 
Tell of the glorious days that once have been — 
Of Falkirk's rout, and Preston's gallant fight — 
Of Holyrood's brave chiefs, and ladies bright — 
Of Cope's bold troopers rushing from the field — 
Of Hawley's veterans forced to fly or yield : 
Then, as the tear rolls down each wrinkled face, 
Mourn o'er the last of Stuart's royal race. 



46 



THE EING. 

-♦ 

Sweet priceless relic ! thou art all that 's left 

To tell of her who slumbers in the tomb ; 
To soothe the sorrowings of the bereft, 

And dry the tear shed o'er her early doom. 
Thy little circle ne'er can comprehend 

The speaking charms it fain would represent ; 
Thy matchless lustre ne'er a ray could lend, 

To brighten her soul's heavenly firmament. 

Ah ! yes, the passing beauty of her form, 
The faultless sweetness of her angel face, 

The melting glance that might a cynic warm, 
]^o pen may paint, nor poet's fancy trace. 



THE RING. 47 

The living beauty of her gentle heart, 

In sunnier tints than e'er met human eye, 

More truly faithful than by limner's art, 
Is deeply graven on the memory. 

Eemorseless Death ! could' st thou not have forborne 

To snap the gentlest ties that ever bound ? 
To snatch my flow' ret on her budding morn, 

And strew her leaflets on the cold, cold ground ? 
Mysterious doom ! that all that 's pure and bright, 

Like meteor, glances — then is seen no more ; 
Comes but to dazzle us with Heaven's own light, 

Then leaves us darker than we were before ! 

Sweet, beauteous Eba, whilst remembrance clings, 
While this heart yet one last pulsation hath, 

Thy form shall hover near on seraph wings, 
And shed a halo round my darkest path. 



48 THE RING. 

This little relic, oft on it I gaze 

"With thoughts too sad for other eyes to read, — 
Years, while thou livedst, seem'd but summer days ; 

Days, since thou left us, winter years indeed ! 

They tell me, Eba, that, as time rolls on, 

Change after change will heal the heart that's torn:- 
It shall be so — if but the sun, that shone 

This lovely eye, lights not to-morrow's morn. 
It shall be so — if but yon silent moon 

May never cross the dark blue sky again. 
Then will the sorrower, but, alas, too soon ! 

Forget thee, dearest — then, and only then ! 

Fond gift, eternal emblem of our love, 

More priceless far than India's golden streams ; 

Thou guidest all my waking thoughts above, 
And waftest Eba to my nightly dreams. 



THE RING. 49 

Tears from a fountain time can never dry, 

Burst forth fresh gushing o'er my swelling heart : 

Sweet relic, only with my latest sigh, 

Thou and her image in hit breast shall part. 



50 



THE PEIVATEEE, 1 

The farewell gun booms o'er the wave, big swells the 

snowy sail; 
The gallant bark bounds fearlessly before the rising 

gale; 
The crested billows burst in spray across her glistening 

bow ; 
Oh, where 's the heart that beats not high to look 

upon her now ? 

Her crew, as fine a set of men as ever trode a deck, 
To wield the gleaming marlin-spike, or snatch a soul 
from wreck, 



1 During the last war, a privateer manned with the flower of the West 
Country, sailed on her first cruise from the shores of England. She was 
never afterwards heard of. 



r 

THE PKIVATEER. 


51 


Lean here upon the bulwarks, or there 


climb high the 


mast, 






To gaze in silence on the land they now were leaving 


fast. 






Perchance a tear-drop fills 


some eye, 


yet soon 'tis 


brush' d away, 






For tears but dim a sailor 


s glance, , 


as showers, an 


April day ; 






Each grasps his cutlass-hilt, 


and turns 


a look of hope 


above, 






For they are going forth 


to guard ' 


:he homes and 


hearts they love. 






And, from the shore, so cheerless now 


waves many a 


snowy hand, 






And many a lovely eye is 


fix'd upon that gallant 


band ; 







52 THE PRIVATEER. 

And many a soft-breathed prayer for them across the 

waters came, 
In battle's hour of fear — of fear ? — they knew it but 

by name. 

The foe had threaten 5 d Albion, they were now upon 

the wave, 
They knew not that their path must be o'er many a 

Briton's grave ; 
They knew not that till arm could wield the battle 

blade no more, 
They ne'er might set a stranger foot on our beloved 

shore. 

Por these were men who, while the blood of life 

bedew' d a vein, 
"Would shed it for old England's sake again, ay, and 

again ; 



THE PBXVATEEE. 53 

For Albion's beauteous daughters, too, would dying 

grasp the foe, 
And down together 'neath the wave, the dead and 

living, go. 

Their native shore had scarce grown dim in distance 

far behind, 
When, hark ! a sudden hurricane came sweeping on 

the wind ; 
Came sweeping on the wind across the blue Atlantic's 

breast, 
Too soon, alas ! to shade the brief bright vision of the 

West. 



Wild raged the storm, in mountains high the billows 

upward curl'd, 
Then down, down from the blacken' d sky again seem'd 

backward hurl'd ; 



54 THE PRIVATEER. 

A short wild scream of terror rose above the tempest's 

roar, 
And when the sun broke forth again the bark was 

seen no more ! 

Months — years have rolTd their course since then, 

and still, each weary day, 
An aged form may yet be seen to wander round the 

bay; 
Dull is the glance, so beaming once, yet no one 

wonders why, 
For she has watch' d and wept enough to dim the 

brightest eye. 



55 



STANZAS. 



Death, Death ! whom seekest thou, 
Who is thy victim to-day ? 

Stay, stay ! let mercy now 

Plead for the mourner — oh. stay I 

Death, Death ! seest thou that eye, 

Mark'st thou, 'tis dazzling bright ? 

Stay, stay ! answer me why, 

Must thou quench quickly its light ; 

Death, Death ! seest thou that form, 

Mark'st thou perfection and grace ? 

Stay, stay ! the heart is yet warm, 

Why would' st its beauty deface ? 



56 . STANZAS. 

Death, Death ! seest thou that soul, 

Mark'st thou, 'tis buoyant and free ? 

Ah, ah ! o'er it no control, 
Tyrant, is given to thee ! 



57 



WBITTEN ON VISITING THE BATTLEMENTS 
OF NEWAKK CASTLE. 

Behind rude Goat-fell slowly sinks the sun, 
As if 'twere loth to lose so fair a sight, 

And lingers, though its weary race is run, 
Eor one last glance, as brief as it is bright. 

Land of the Poet ! from grey Newark's wall, 
I love to gaze on summer's closing day, 

And view tower, woodland, sunny streamlet, all 
Once dear to those who now have pass'd away. 

Land of the Painter ! from ' brown Carrick's ' steep, 
O 'er the sweet scene, enchanted roams the eye, 

Where winding Ayr and Doon's bright waters sweep, 
Half-hidden 'neath their verdant drapery. 



58 NEWARK CASTLE. 

Land of the Patriot ! Arran's beauteous isle, 
That sleeps so calmly 'midst a golden flood 

Of western glory, points to where, erewhile, 

The Bruce, an outcast on its strand, once stood. 

Proud may'st thou be, thou fair, thrice-favour'd shore, 
Te ' blue-capp'd hills,' right boastful may ye rise ; 

For ye have seen, what seen may be no more, 
A Wallace bleed to burst ' a tyrant's ties.' 

Oh ! I could linger long, untired to gaze, 

Enraptured, o'er a paradise lite this ; 
To trace each streamlet through its woody maze, 

Pit haunt of love — fit scene of peaceful bliss. 

Oft through yon groves, at this sweet vesper hour, 
"When the glad mavis caroll'd forth his song, 

"When Spring breathed fragrance thro' each dewy bower. 
And c bonnie Doon ' roll'd merrily along. 



NEWARK CASTLE. 59 

Careless I 've stray' d, — or, 'neath some aged tree 
Reclining, watch' d the sun's departing beam ; 

And thought of him, whose wood-notes, wild and free, 
Have lent a sacred charm to ' brae ' and stream. 

Oft shall the bard, his gloomy track to cheer, 
This scene of passing loveliness recall ; 

And gaze on memory's picture with a tear, 

As if he look'd once more from Newark's wall ! 



60 



OLD LETTERS. 



Old letters ! oh, then, spare them ; they are priceless 

for their age ! 
I love, oh ! how I love to see each yellow time- stain' d 

page ! 
They tell of joys that are no more — of hopes that long 

have fled, — 
Old letters ! oh, then, spare them ; they are sacred to 

the dead. 

They tell of times, of happy times, in years long, long 

gone by, 
Of dear ones who have ceased to live, but in the 

memory ; 



OLD LETTERS. 61 

The j picture many a hallow' d scene, in sunny days 
of yore ; 

Old letters ! oh, then, spare them ; for they are a price- 
less store ! 



Old am I now, and grey-hair' d too, deserted and 

alone, 
And all of those, I once might call my friends, alas ! 

are gone ; 
Tet oft, when midnight veils the world, in solitude's 

retreat, 
With each one, in his silent tomb, I hold communion 

sweet. 



Old letters ! here is one — the hand of youth is on its 

face ; 
Ah ! that was from a brother young, in some far foreign 

place ; 



62 OLD LETTERS. 

A sailor boy, beloved by all, frank, open-hearted, 

brave ; — 
Cold, cold and lonesome is his rest, beneath the 

Atlantic wave. 

Another, stain' d with dark-red spots, as clasp' d by 

bloody hands, 
"Was found beneath a father's corse, on dread Corunna's 

sands ; 
A stranger, with the kindliest care, convey' d the relic 

dear, 
Old letters ! ye are priceless, ye have cost a widow's 

tear! 

Another — know I not that hand ? Oh ! she was 

bright and fair, 
Too pure, too gentle, and too good for angels her to 

spare 



OLD LETTERS. 63 

More than a few brief years on earth : well, Death, 

thon might' st be vain, 
Thon hast not snch another flower in all thy dark 

domain. 

Oh ! ye are now the only links that bind me to the 

past ; 
Sweet, sweet memorials of the days too happy, far, to 

last; 
The tear-drop fills again the eye which tears had 

almost fled : 
Old letters ! ye are precions ! ye are sacred to the 

dead ! 



64 



FAKEWELL TO COLLEGE. 
— ♦ — 

Fakewell, farewell ! old venerable pile, 
Te dusky towers, a long, a last adieu ; 

A tear-drop mingles with my parting smile, 
Hope claims the one, — the other falls for you ! 

Yes, Memory bids the liquid tribute flow, 

To scenes, and friends who sunn'd life's early day, 

To times so happy once — long, long ago — 
All but whose memories have pass'd away. 

And Recollection paints our buoyant hearts, 
In those our years of thoughtlessness and joy, 

And oh ! the colour, which her touch imparts, 
Ages of wearing care can ne'er destroy. 



FAREWELL TO COLLEGE. 65 

For each green islet 'mid life's stormy sea 

Will rise more verdant from the passing wave ; 

Each fair oasis in the memory 

Will seem the fairer as we near the grave. 

And you, ye time-worn walls, oh ! could ye speak, 
Conld ye but picture sights that ye have seen, 

Then might ye tell of many a toil-blanch' d cheek, 
How changed, alas ! from what it once had been. 

Then might ye tell of many a langhing eye, 
Lit with the smiles such eyes, alone, can wear, 

Some mother doted on in years gone by, 
Now dim and lustreless with early care. 

Then might ye tell of hearts, that erst were light, 
Crush' d down beneath misfortune's iron heel ; 

Of youth's gay hopeful visions once so bright, 
Doom'd stern Reality's dark change to feeL 



6Q FAREWELL TO COLLEGE. 

Yet have ye sunny scenes. — Should some complain, 
That they, perchance, have lost what most they prized, 

When many come in triumph, and remain 
To see their dearest wishes realised ? 

No, no, let such go forth into this wide 

And restless world ' unnoticed and unknown,' 

They have but seen the picture's gloomy side — 
Eate has but made that gloomy side their own. 

No more, no more — another fleeting year 
"Will bring the Kalends of another May ; 

And he, who now has dropp'd a parting tear, 
Will, then, be battling onward, far away. 

New forms, new features, will efface the scene, 
Strange voices break at once the gentle spell ; 

Thou wilt forget that such there e'er has been, 
Tet still, old Alma Mater, fare thee well ! 





67 




STANZAS. 


They tell 


me that my gallant boy 


Fell cover' d with renown ; 


They tell : 


me Death can ne'er destroy 



Glory's immortal crown ; 
They tell me Victory, afar, 

Peal'd o'er the ensanguined plain ; 
What care I for the voice of war ? — 

He comes not back again ! 

They tell me that he fought and bled 
As dauntless warriors die ; 

They tell me that around him, dead, 
A thousand foemen lie ; 



F 2 



STANZAS. 

They tell me that my only one 
Fell 'midst the honour'd slain ; 

What care I though he fell alone ? — 
He comes not back again ! 

They tell me that his dying voice 

Proclaim' d our liberty, — 
" Eejoice, my countrymen, rejoice, 

Once more our homes are free ;" 
They tell me that his single hand 

Dash'd down the tyrants' chain ; 
What care I, now, for slavery's band ? — 

He comes not back again ! 

On tower and hill the watchlight burns, 
For triumphs wait the brave ; 

But one that went, no more returns, 
He sleeps beyond the wave ; 



STANZAS. 69 

Each beaming eye is lit with joy, 

They think not of the slain ; 
They mourn not o'er a gallant boy, 

"Who comes not back again ! 



70 



SCOTIA. 

— ♦ — 

Scotia, cradle-land of genius ! theme of many a poet's 

lay; 

O'er whose form a magic beauty seems to hold resist- 
less sway ; 

O'er whose rough and storm-cleft mountain, heathy 
moor, or woody dell, 

Lingers, and will ever linger, some wild, sweet, 
enchanting spell ! 

Happy land ! look but around thee, turn thy gaze from 

shore to shore ; 
Say, hast thou one glen unhallow'd by some voice 

that 's now no more ? 



SCOTIA. 71 

Hast thou, 'mid thy sunny valleys, one bright stream 

that ne'er has sigh'd 
O'er the bard whose wont it was to wander by its 

silver tide ? 

Is it morning? — list, the music, wafted from yon 

distant hill, 
Mingles in harmonious sweetness with the murmuring 

of the rill • — 
Is it eve ? then, hark, the gloaming echoes with the 

lightsome song ; 
'Tis some village maiden singing, as she homeward 

trips along. 

Land of beauty ! fascination sits enthroned where'er 

thou art ; 
At thy sight, spontaneous worship bursts fresh-gushing 

from the heart ; 



72 SCOTIA. 

From far countries wondering strangers come, attracted 

by thy praise, 
All their toil at once forgotten, when entranced on 

thee they gaze. 

Pilgrim minstrels, too, have sought thee — laid their 

offerings at thy feet, 
Marvelling not that thine own poets warbled in such 

accents sweet ; 
Roving 'midst thy glens and mountains, caught at 

once the impassion' d strain ; 
Seized their harps, and woke an echo they may never 

hear again ! 



Mingling with their kindred spirits, inspiration 

thrill' d the string, — 
Scotia's breezes swept across it ; Scotia's beauties 

bade them sing, 



SCOTIA. 73 

Fired, as erst in ancient story, scarce they touch' d 

the quivering chords ; 
Scarce they raised their trembling fingers, ere the soul 

broke forth in words. 

Tet, what need hast thou of minstrels ? thou who, 

aye, could' st boast a band, 
Bright with gifted sons of genius, ever prompt at thy 

command ? 
Burns, whose harp thrills every bosom — his the touch 

that knew no peer ; 
Campbell, gentle bard, whose numbers fall like music 

on the ear : 



Scott, — the clang of border foray rings throughout his 

martial line ; 
Ramsay, — rural loves and beauty who could paint with 

pen like thine ? 



74 SCOTIA. 


Well such men canst thou appreciate, well thou 


know'st the poet's meed, 


All he loves, and all he lives for, honour to his humble 


reed. 


Tardy thou art not t' award it ; proud thou art, and 


justly too : 


Few the lands so highly favour' d ; ay, alas ! by far too 


few; 


Thus it is that wandering minstrels, whencesoe'er 


their footsteps roam, 


Ever meet from thee a welcome — ever find in thee a 


home! 



75 



"IN MEMOBIAM." 



And art thou gone — for ever gone — my long-loved 

early friend, 
And is it thus that all the dreams of other days must 

end ? 
And is it thus that hope deferr'd must glide away at 

last, 
And leave us nought to eling to, save the memory of 

the Past ? 



How dear to me that memory now — how dear — how 

doubly dear 
The hallow' d recollection of many a by-gone year ; 



76 IN MEMORIAM. 

How cherish' d each familiar spot, each well remember' d 

scene, 
Thus link'd to thee and happiness in days that once 

have been ! 

Each little word is treasured now — as treasured ne'er 

before, 
Since, ah ! the lips that utter' d it may never utter 

more ; 
The joyous echoes of thy voice we listen for in 

vain, 
For ever hush'd amongst us, they may greet us ne'er 

again. 



Our boyhood was a merry time — oft merrier than we 

deem, 
'Till once we 're hurried far adown life's rough and 

troubled stream — 



"US MEMORIAL. 77 

And sunny days those must have been, indeed, when 

even yet, 
Thought pictures them in colours we never can 

forget ! 

Methinks I see again the hill where we were wont to 

stray, 
Or, basking in the sunshine, dream the summer-tide 

away; 
Or, gazing o'er the ocean, mark the fishers' tiny 

sail 
Spread its white bosom eagerly to catch the evening 

gale. 

The wild bee round the heather-bell still sings her 

little song, 
Now near — now falling faintly, as she swiftly speeds 

along ; 



78 


"in memoriam/" 




The hum of yonder busy town, borne far upon the 


breeze, 






By distance sweetly soften' d — comes 


floating o'er the 


trees. 






Methinks I seek, 


yet once again, the 


river's sparkling 


tide, 






Where we so oft, 


in other days, have 


wander' d side by 


side ; 






Methinks I trace its winding course 


'neath bush and 


ivied steep, 






Until at last : 


Lts merry voice is 


silenced in the 


deep. 




i 


Its wavelets, in 


the sunshine — just 


as they did of 


yore — 






A.re dancing still 


right cheerily from 


woody shore to 


shore ; 







"in memobiam." 


79 


Or, weary of their pastime now, lie slumbering in the 


shade, 




Hush'd in the dark and rocky bed which 


they 


themselves have made. 




The mill, half hidden 'mid the trees, still stems the 


impatient flood, 




And stands the monarch of the stream, just as it 


ever 


stood ; 




The ancient bridge still boldly rears her tottering 


arch 


on high, 




And seems yet more to tremble for her 


own 


stability. 




I see them all but little changed, till once I 


look 


around, 




And hear, alas ! no more again thy merry laugh 


resound, 





80 IN MEMORIAM. 

And miss an old familiar face, remember' d, all ! so 

well, 
And find a blank whose dreariness no tongue can ever 

tell. 

We each one, in our early youth, chose out his path 

of life, 
And each began his journey through a world of care 

and strife ; 
But, sever' d though in course of years, our hearts, 

united fast, 
"Were ever buoyant with the hope that we should 

meet at last. 



And so we will— what though, alas ! thine was an 

early doom, 
Ere yet the fragile flowers of Hope had budded into 

bloom, 





"in memoeiam." 


81 


Though I am left to battle 


on, alone, 


o'er Life's rough 


plain, 








If Heaven 


in mercy suffer it, we 


still shall meet 


again. 








Sleep on — and peaceful be 


thy sleep, my old companion 


dear ! 








Thou hast, 


at least, been 


spared the griefs of those 


who linger here ; 






Thou hast, 


at least, felt 


sorrow less — if even little 


j°y— 








For this world knows no 


happiness 


that has not its 


alloy! 










THE 


END. 





LONDON: 

BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, U'HlTLFklARS. 



i<- 



